Malvern frowns at his stopwatch; not because Mettle was slow, but because she was the opposite.
“And I told you before, I’ll sell you any of the thoroughbreds.”
“I didn’t make any of those thoroughbreds. I didn’t make them what they are.”
Malvern says, “You made all of them what they are.”
I don’t look at him. “None of them made me who I am.”
It feels like an incredible confession. I’ve turned my heart out for Malvern to examine the contents. I’ve grown up alongside Corr. My father rode him and my father lost him, and then I found him again. He’s the only family I have.
Benjamin Malvern rubs his great coarse thumb over his chin, and for a moment I think that he’s actually considering it. But then he says, “Choose another horse.”
“I’ll train the others. That’s the only thing that will change.”
“Choose another horse, Mr. Kendrick.”
“I don’t want another horse,” I say. “I want Corr.”
He still doesn’t look at me. If he looks at me, I think, I have him. My blood sings in my ears.
Malvern says, “I’m not having this conversation again. He’s not for sale.”
As Malvern watches the next horse stepping onto the track, I fist my hands in my pockets, remembering how Kate Connolly didn’t back down at the riders’ parade. I remember Holly saying that there must be something that Malvern wanted more than Corr. I remember the mare goddess’s strange voice: Make another wish. I even think of Mutt Malvern, risking everything for fame on that piebald mare. I had always thought that I’d spent my entire life gambling, risking my life each year on the beach, but I now know that I’ve never risked the one thing that I truly was afraid to lose.
I don’t want to do this.
I say, very quietly, “Then, Mr. Malvern, I quit.”
He turns his head and one of his eyebrows is raised. “What’s that?”
“I quit. Today. Find another trainer. Find someone else to ride in the races.”
The faintest hint of a smile moves his lips. I recognize it: disdain. “Are you trying to blackmail me?”
“Call it what you like,” I say. “Sell me Corr, and I’ll race for you one last year, and I’ll keep on training your horses.”
On the gallop, a dark bay gelding lopes along, breathing hard. He’s not in racing condition yet. Malvern rubs his hand over his lips again, an action that somehow reminds me of Mettle.
“You overestimate your importance to this yard, Mr. Kendrick.”
I don’t flinch. I’m standing in the ocean, feeling it press against my legs, but I won’t let it move me.
“Do you think I can’t find someone else to ride your stallion?” Malvern asks me. He waits for me to answer, and when I don’t, he says, “There are twenty boys I can think of dying to get on the back of that horse.”
The image splinters in my heart, and I’m sure he means it to.
When I still don’t speak, he says, “Well, that’s that. Have your things out by the end of the week.”
I’ve never had to be this steady. Never had to make myself so still and fearless. I can’t breathe, but I make myself hold out my hand.
“Don’t play that game,” Malvern says, without looking at me. “I invented it.”
The meeting’s over.
I might never ride Corr again.
I don’t know who I am without him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
PUCK
Most of the time, I trust Dove more than just about anybody, but she does have her moments. She doesn’t like to be in water above the knee, which on Thisby is probably wisdom instead of cowardice. As a filly, she had an altercation with a sheep truck and she has yet to make her peace with them. And she’s generally daunted by anything that could be described as weather. I can forgive her these, though, because it’s not often I need to plow through a river or race a sheep truck or trot to Skarmouth in a gale.
But by the time I return to the cliff tops that afternoon, there is definitely weather. The wind cuts straight and low across turf made deep, dark green by the clouds pressing overhead. When the gusts blast across Dove’s face, strong enough to check her speed, she spooks and shivers. The air stinks of the capaill uisce. Neither of us wants to be here in this night-dark afternoon.
But I know we ought to stay. If there is wind or rain on the day of the race, I need Dove to be solid. Not the slippery, jerky animal that she is right now.
“Easy,” I tell her, but her ears are swiveling to catch everything but my voice.
A howl of wind sends her skittering dangerously close to the cliff edge. For a moment I see the hump of the cliff grass where it falls over the edge of the rock, toward the froth of the surging ocean far below. I feel the timeless, swimming sensation of possibility. Then I jerk one of the reins and kick her forward.
Dove shoots inland, still out of control, twisting and impossible to sit on.
I use everything my mother ever told me about riding. I imagine a string attached to my head pulling down through my spine, tying me to the saddle. I imagine I’m made of sand. I imagine my feet are stones hanging on either side of Dove’s belly, too weighty to be shifted.
I keep my balance and slow her down, but my heart’s hammering.
I don’t like being afraid of her.
This is when Ian Privett arrives. Under this iron sky, he looks dark as a funeralgoer. He rides up on his sleek gray, Penda, who’s not so much dappled as streaked with white like the storm-crazed ocean down below. A few lengths away from him is Ake Palsson, the baker’s son, on a chestnut uisce mare, and with him is a bay capall uisce ridden by Gerald Finney, who’s a second cousin or something of Ian Privett’s. There’s an attending group of men on foot, noisy and wind-tossed.
I can’t imagine why they’d be coming up here, full of purpose, until Tommy Falk trots up behind them on his black mare. When his gaze finds me, there’s a warning in it.
Ake Palsson leads the way toward me. He looks like his father the baker, which should be bad, since giant Nils Palsson has wild tufts of white hair, deep crevices for eyes, and a paunch that looks as if he’s smuggling a bag of flour under his shirt. But Ake’s squinted eyes only make the shock of his blue eyes more impressive, and his white-blond hair is carefree instead of startling. He’s intimidatingly tall, and if there are sacks of flour in his future, his hard frame has no hint of it now. My father always liked Ake. He said, Ake gets things done, which is a compliment because on this island, so many people don’t.
Curled on the back of his chestnut, Ake calls, jolly, “And how is the third Connolly brother doing today?”
This earns him a laugh. It’s not until the laugh’s over that I realize he means me.
Finney’s bay snaps at Ake as they trot closer. Just a squabble, but the sound of those teeth snapping makes Dove flinch.
“It’s a shame what passes for humor these days,” I reply. I try to hide how much work it’s taking for me to hold Dove steady. The wind was bad enough, and now capaill uisce.
“It’s got a bit of currency,” Ake says. I can’t see the important parts of his expression in this light, so I can’t tell if his smile is a funny one or not. “Down on the beach, they’ve started calling you Kevin.”